


Finding Querencia A-Lot-Ta-Mus

by ScotlandEvander



Series: Don't Ever Change [23]
Category: Actor RPF, Benedict Cumberbatch Fandom, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, Baby, Boston, Dog - Freeform, Established Relationship, F/M, Humor, London, Los Angeles, Moving, Moving In Together, POV Alternating, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Male Character, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Parenthood, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 08:31:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2341826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScotlandEvander/pseuds/ScotlandEvander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You just had to out do everyone else, didn’t you?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Just couldn’t dump water on your head once, could you?”</p>
<p>“Nope.”</p>
<p>“And you just had to do another shower scene, didn’t you?”</p>
<p>“I’ll likely do a few more before I’m seen as too old and crotchety,” I admit.</p>
<p>Door glowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Querencia A-Lot-Ta-Mus

The song Door sings is called “If You Love A Hippopotamus.” It was composed by Connie Kaldor and performed by Heather Bishop. 

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

It is amazing what I’ll do to get my kid to smile. The first time he did it we were at Whole Foods. Just checking out and I look down and there is this blue eyed kid beaming at me. And it looked honestly ridiculous due to the lack of teeth and crazy hair the baby was blessatized with. Most babies are bald, I guess, but my kid has a full head of crazy-going-every-which-direction curly, blond hair. 

Yeah, he’s blond.

Genetics isn’t my strong suit, but Kelly Rippa’s youngest was blond for a while, so my kid has every right to be blond too. (I know she’s not a natural blond and her husband is dark haired, so yeah, it makes sense. Also, my brother was totally a tow-head till he was like six. Now his hair is almost black.) 

Any ways, at the moment I’m sitting on the floor in a hotel room in Boston, singing the Broadway version of “Friend Like Me” in order to entertain Kerr (no one believes me, but he _likes_ this song). And to get him to smile at me like he did the other day.

Kerr refuses to smile no matter how big of a fool I make out of myself. Clearly, he only smiles when I’m busy buying crap and trying to keep track of the stroller, my oversized diaper bag/purse, and my wallet.

“Okay, I give up, kid,” I sigh as the song ends.

He continues to stare at me through his father’s eyes. Ben insists they are my blue eyes, but I swear there is too much brown and green showing up as the days go by to be my eyes. Also, he’s got Ben’s eyelashes as I do not have those ridiculously curly lashes. Kerr did not get those from me. 

He didn’t get much from me, if I’m honest. He’s got legs. I did not have legs when I was born. Okay, I did have legs, but I was mostly torso and some little feet. Granted, I know Kerr isn’t a girl, so nothing will really be “little” on him, but he’s got these super long, gangly legs and arms. 

There is nothing gangly about me. Or anyone I’m blood related to, except Kerr. Thus, still have no genetics degree, but I’m pretty sure those came from Ben. 

Another thing I blame on Ben: Kerr doesn’t like to sleep.

Hence why I’m sitting here singing at him when he ought to be napping. Napping and Kerr don’t go together— something Ben refused to believe until we arrived in Boston a few days ago and Kerr proceeded to not sleep for twenty-four hours in favor of wailing loudly. 

I thought newborns slept, ate, and pooped. I knew they cried, but mostly they were boring because all they did was sleep.

Kerr doesn’t sleep. Kerr screams bloody murder instead. 

At least he’s not screaming at the moment. 

* * *

Kerr was born 3 June 2014. He showed up after much screeching, wailing, and throwing ice chips on my part and he was only three days late. And he arrived up at a brilliant time, as it was perfectly between Ben’s various commitments. It was like the kid knew Ben was starting a movie in Boston in a few weeks. 

Boston is much closer than London, but it’s still a long flight with a squalling newborn who refuses to sleep. 

Luckily, my dad made the trip with me, under the guise he was simply going to see his brother (who lives out there), but I have a feeling he simply felt sorry for me trying to travel on my own with a sleep deprived newborn. (Okay, I was a little sleep deprived as well.)

My mom…well, she wasn’t on board with my need to take myself to Boston as soon as my doctor said it was perfectly okay for me to fly off— which was four weeks after Kerr was born. The doc said to wait two more weeks before I start…you know again and exercising, but I could hop a flight to Boston.

My mom is not onboard with anything having to do with Ben. He’s still in the dog house. Even though he slipped up a few weeks ago and stated he was seeing someone to the press (don’t know why that’s important to her) and then someone else let it drop he was in a happy relationship and those Cumberbitches needed to move on.  

Any-who, while the world might know that Ben’s got a girlfriend, we’re no closer to the alter, so my mom is still being an ice queen towards Ben. (And me, but not as much since I popped the grandkid out. He’s an adorable baby. He melts everyone’s heart. Even while bawling and beet red.) 

Since I’ve arrived in Boston, during times Ben’s not filming we’ve gone out and walked around with Kerr. I love Boston, even in the summer. I grew up spending a lot of summers in Boston. Between my dad coming here on business and his brother living here, I’ve lost track of the times I’ve been to Boston. Also, throughout most of my formative years I was obsessed with the Colonial Period and what better city to get your history fix than Boston?

The last time I was in Boston proper (meaning the downtown), I think I was thirteen and surly. Now that I’m not surly, or thirteen, I am anxious to get out and see the sights and share them with Kerr.

Even if he won’t remember. Or appreciate it. He likes being outside and on the move. 

“Pap at three,” Ben warns. “I haven’t seen one when I’m not on set here.”

“The city is your set,” I remind him.

Kerr is currently pretty covered up to protect him from the sun (as I am. I’m a redhead. The sun is my enemy, oversized hats are my friend), so I’m not too worried about him being photographed. Not that it’s something I’ve worried about. I’ll likely have to worry later, but at the moment…maybe I should worry?

“I know, I know. I guess I ought to get used to the lack of privacy,” Ben laments. “It’ll likely get worse before it gets better.” 

“That’s the way to be positive!” 

Ben gives me a grumpy look, before tugging the god awful hat he’s plastered on his head. I keep stealing his hats and he keeps making even more god awful ones appear. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

“We should move in together.”

I come to the stop in the middle of the sidewalk and stare at Door. She continues walking, not bothering to notice I’ve gone into a state of shock. 

In her last trimester, I broached the subject of cohabitation. Especially when Tom and Pamela made it look so easy. While I wasn’t exactly keen to give up my life in London, Tom spent more time in London than I did in the past year, so if he could give the city up for love (and he adores the city more than I do) I am sure I could live in Chicago. Or wherever. I do not wish to be too near her parents. While Roger is brilliant, her mother would likely figure out how to turn her eyes into lasers and render me into a pile of ash. 

“Pardon?” I choke out.

Door comes to a stop, turning around. 

She looks so natural pushing the pram. Every time I see her with the pram (or Kerr in general) I feel a burst of a mixture of pride, love, and awe.  

“Did you not understand me?”

Oh, right. Cohabitation talk. 

“Tragically, I must have misheard you as you said we ought to live together. This topic was one that almost lost me my hair last time I broached it.”

Never request anything of Door when she’s holding sewing shears and hasn’t slept properly in weeks. (Her last trimester, literally the moment it started, she had to use the loo every two hours. Day and night. Proper sleep did not occur until after Kerr was born and now she sleeps at a drop of a hat. 

And she’s difficult to wake. 

Even while Kerr was crying. 

It is not true that all mothers wake when their babies wail. Sometimes, I have to hit her with a pillow a few times to wake her up to feed him at night.)  

“Seriously? You took that to heart? I was high on pregnancy hormones.”

“That cannot be your excuse for everything.”

Door flaps her hand at me. “Bah.”

“Do you honestly wish to live together?”

“Yes.”

“Where would we live?” I carefully broach. 

I walk the few paces I fell behind and stand so I can see the sleeping Kerr and have a conversation with Door. (He’s sleeping! Sleeping!) This conversation is one I do not wish to have while walking down a public street, yet it seems as if I am. 

“That, my dear sir, is the question.”

“You are the least mobile of the two of us.”

“But, I love London,” she pouts, motioning with her head she’d like to continue our constitution. “The logical part of me agrees that I am the least portable of the pair of us. Plus, I would hate to loose my built in babysitters.”

“Quite right,” I agree. 

“Though, I’d have your mom and dad,” she says, cocking her head to the side. “And your gaggle of friends who have kids and will likely think Kerr is the next best thing after sliced bread.”

I snort. “I doubt that. We’re his parents, so of course we think that.”

“You’ve not taken him out in public often, have you?” Door says, leveling me a look. “Everyone loves your kid. His big blue eyes, his super long lashes, his full head of hair, his super long legs, his adorable clothes…”

Kerr is rather well dressed for a baby. He’s not wearing designers, nor is he dressed as Prince George tends to be dressed, but he is put together every time I’ve ever laid eyes on my own child. Well, apart when he was born. He was quite naked and covered in goop.

Birth is not beautiful. It’s rather disgusting—especially when your girlfriend reenacts a scene worthy of a Quentin Tarantino movie in the birthing suite. The baby was also rather…interesting looking as well. He was much better looking after his first bath (not that he enjoyed his first bath…or his second…or his third…) and within a few hours he lost his cone head. Somewhat. 

Kerr Carlton Thomas Cumberbatch is a gorgeous baby boy now. (Yes, Thomas worked his way into his name. It was partly a joke, partly due to the fact that while we were in the mists of holding and bonding with the baby the first time, Door decided Thomas had to be part of his name.)

My son’s name is as long as mine, word wise. He’s got less syllables than I do having that shorter first name. 

“Anyways, we should live together. Somewhere.”

“We could do what Tom and Pamela did,” I suggest. 

While she did bring up the topic, I feel I am still walking in a mine field. 

“What? Live in the middle of nowhere while keeping a flat in London?”

“No. We’d buy a home near your parents in Villa Park and I’d keep the flat I own in London. No matter where we live, I have a feeling Kerr will rack up the frequent flyer miles.”

Door snorts. “Yeah. Likely. Where would our actual home base me, though?”

“Uh…Lombard.”

“Lombard?”

I give her a sheepish look.

“Oh my god! Benedict! Did you already buy a house?”

“No. But, I did set up an appointment with an estate agent,” I admit. I wait for her to start breathing fire. She continues to stare at me blankly. “I told her what I was looking for and in what area. I’d rather stay in Lombard, but the agent is pushing Wheaton and Glen Ellyn.”

“They’re a bit more posh,” Door explains, “but still within a twenty minute drive of my parent’s house.”

“And that’s the goal.”

“I feel like I might be using you.”

“For what?”

I want to make a really inappropriate joke, but know better. While Door is doing remarkably well, she still is suffering from some postpartum hardships. So far… let’s just say, I haven’t had sex in almost three months. Well, a certain form of sex. It doesn’t exactly bother me, but I do miss it. I fear I won’t be having this form of sex for quite awhile either. 

Not that I really have much time to have any kind of sex with Door, so I take what I can get and what she’s comfortable with. And I can completely understand why after pushing a thirteen inch round head out, she’d not wish to have a certain type of sex. 

“Ben. Stop thinking about sex,” Door flatly says, glaring at me over the top of her sunglasses. “I swear you’ve got a one track mind.”

I swallow and push those thoughts out and get back to the topic. “You’re not using me for anything.”

“Yeah, your money.”

“You are not.”

“You fund my company and now you’re buying me a house.”

“ _We’re_ buying a house.”

I was going to buy a condo or something and hope one day Door would move in. Or I’d live in the condo till she decided we could live together and then we’d buy a house. If she wants to skip the step of me moving to the States on my own, well, I’m not going to complain.  

“You’re buying the house. No one would sell me a house.”

“They’d try to, the bank just likely wouldn’t approve a mortgage for what you wish to buy,” I tell her. “We are buying a house. It is our house.”

“Will be our house,” she corrects. 

“Yes.”

“Unless you really did buy one.” Door eyes me again over her sunglasses in suspicion. 

“No. I only looked on that website Pamela showed me she used to find her flat in Enid.”

“She doesn’t live in a flat, Ben. It’s a townhouse.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” I say, flapping my hand at her. 

“So, we going to do this?”

“Yes.”

“When do you plan to come out to look?”

“After I wrap here,” I say. “We’ll look at homes and keep at it till we find one that fits our needs.”

“You’re seriously going to settle down in America suburbia?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot see that.”

“Darling, I’ve always wanted that life. A little house in the country, with a picket white fence, and a litter of children.”

“The Chicago suburbs are not the country.”

“Yes, well, I changed my dream when I met you, love,” I softly admit, weaving our hands together on top of the pram handle. “The country, the white picket fence, and litter of children are now moved to the Chicago suburbs, likely no white fence, and Kerr.”

After giving birth (and before and while in labor), Door vehemently announced to anyone with ears she was NEVER doing THIS again. Everyone assured her she’d do it again, as newborns were so lovely and so were babies and children and little Kerr needed a brother or sister. 

Forty-eight hours later, Door told me if I ever impregnated her again, she was going to strangle me.

A week later she said if I wanted more than one kid, we were adopting.

“I hated being pregnant and giving birth was the worst experience of my life. We’re adopting your other five kids.”

While I’d always thought I’d want to have my own kids (meaning with my DNA and Door’s) it didn’t bother me when she said she wished to adopt the others. Hell, the fact she said we could adopt after being kept awake for a week straight was shocking. I honestly thought I’d have to spend the next few years trying to convince her adopting would work for me. 

(She really detested being pregnant. And she REALLY hated the whole labor and birthing aspect. She said her mother and all women lie when they say the pain vanishes when you first see your little one. And NO ONE tells anyone about all the stuff that goes on AFTER.)

(She told me in great detail. I’m scared for life.)

(Door tends to over share most aspect of how women work.)

“And Kensington,” she proclaims, jarring me out of my wandering thoughts.

“Who is Kensington?”

“The daughter we’re going to adopt from some foreign country in a few years.”

“Really?”

“Yes. We can be like all the other Hollywood couples who adopt overseas kids. I mean, there are hundreds upon hundreds of children worldwide with no families who need them. We’ve got the means to give them a home and family.”

I nod. 

“So, we’ll need room to grow?” I ask.

“Duh,” she says then changes the topic, “Mitch is expanding the business, did he tell you?”

“Yes. You’re mostly going to be doing design and no longer making bags.”

“Yeah. So, I can be a full time mom and still keep my job,” she says. “I’m totally going to be the next Rebecca Minkoff.”

I smile at her, having no idea who Rebecca Minkoff is, but I can guess she does something with handbags. As I look at her, under her huge sun hat that obscures most of her face, I note by the set of her mouth something isn’t right. 

“I’m not living in Lombard.”

I stop again. 

“I want us to live in London.”

She’s wearing that fierce face of hers that I see when she’s set her mind to something and nothing will talk her out of it. (I love this face. Especially when it leads to me being naked.)  

“You wish to live in London?” I squeak out, trying not to think about inappropriate things.

“Yeah. And stop looking like that, you dirty old man,” Door scolds before going on, “I want to raise Kerr British. Have that adorable accent and live in a big city with culture and all that sort of things. You know…I grew up in the suburbs. It’s boring. And not where I want to be. God, I hate it there.”

Oops. She told me that. She hated being home because it wasn’t home. Granted, then later she stated I was home, thus where ever the hell I am is home. So, hence the living in suburbia. Where I am, home is.

Clearly, I am wrong.

“So, uh, can we try the whole living in London thing? I don’t know how I’d live there without a job…but, uh…”

“We’ll figure it out,” I insist quickly. “We’re going to need a bigger flat.”

“What? You already converted your spare room into Kerr’s nursery.”

I flush.

“Your mother sent me pictures,” Door grins.

Likely to tempt Door on over across the pond with the grandchild she’d desperately wanted for years. 

* * *

“You have a child.”

“Yes.”

“You have a child.”

“Yes. That one. In your arms.”

“You have a child?”

Colin stares at Kerr for the longest time before he looks back at me and repeats, “You have a child.”

“No. I don’t. I just carry a baby around with me now days,” I snark. 

“But, but, but…why?”

“You do know how babies are made, Firth, don’t you?”

Colin shoots me a glare over the top of Kerr’s blond curly head. “Yes, Cumberbatch, I do know. What are you doing with a baby?”

“It’s mine.”

“It’s yours?”

“Yes. Can’t you tell?”

I’ve been told by multiple people Kerr looks like me. I can see it in the lips and jaw. He’s got Door’s nose, though. And her huge eyes.

Colin looks between myself and Kerr. “Oh, all right. I do see it. How’d you manage to keep this quiet? And how does your girlfriend—oh.”

“The girlfriend was perfectly happy due to the fact it is her child.”

“She’s more than a simple girlfriend, then?”

I nod.

“Where is she?”

“Asleep.”

Colin looks insulted for a moment till Kerr clobbers him in the face with a chubby fist. 

“Oh, no, none of that,” Colin hushes Kerr who lets out a rather odd sounding wail. “Are you wearing your mum down?”

“Yes,” I lie. Door sleeps more than I do. “Figured she deserved a nap.”

“She fell asleep before you left, didn’t she?” asks Livia, Colin’s wife. “Come here, il bebè.”

Livia takes Kerr from Colin and begins to coo at the baby in Italian. Colin sighs, then looks back at me. 

“We are going to have lunch out on the patio, but…”

“That’s fine. I’ve got a sunhat.”

Livia snatches the sunhat out of my hand and places it over the wild thatch on Kerr’s head before heading out. 

“If you give my wife baby fever I will never forgive you,” Colin chides. 

I hold up my hands and follow him out. Instantly, I’m glad Door bought Kerr such a huge sunhat as I can see the paps in the bushes.

“They cannot publish photos of children in this country,” Livia announces. “Any photos they take, they blur the children out.”

“They will?” I ask.

“I assume. That’s how I understood it. Now, sit, sit. You might not be the mother, but you are just as tried as she.”

I sit, feeling surreal in the Los Angles sunshine. I wrapped filming and flew straight out the Los Angels. It was a long flight, especially when Kerr decided sleep was for the weak and he wasn’t weak. Tragically, we did not bring her father with us out here, so only Door’s been sleeping. Luckily, I’ve got a barrage of people with makeup to make me look as if I am sleeping eight hours nightly. 

When I told Door that Colin Firth had invited us over (well me) over for lunch, Door’s response was, “Do all you British actors know one another and are best friends secretly?”

“Yes. Of course.”

I did a movie with Colin. We keep in touch. He heard I was in town for a bit before going to Comic Con (no Tom to steal the show this year) and invited me over to catch up. 

Colin looks like he might regret it as he watches his wife with Kerr. 

* * *

“I feel like I’m just randomly following you all over the country,” Door remarks as we pack our hotel room at the end of our San Diego trip.

“Wasn’t that the plan?”

“Yeah. But it feels strange. I feel like…I don’t know. A kept woman.”

“Do you really wish to deal with the media storm now?”

While I think Door looks beautiful and quite attractive, she thinks she’s saggy and fat. She didn’t gain much whilst pregnant and it seemed to melt off her within two weeks, but the remaining bit of paunch is still hanging around her middle. She hides it well with most of her tops, but I know Door’s self confidence is quiet low at the moment (hence why she refuses to be seen with me without being under a super sized hat and sunglasses). 

“That was low, Cumberbatch.”

“I—”

“Shut up. You’re right. I’m fat and I don’t want to be seen with the ever gorgeous Benedict Cumberbatch for all the leagues of girls who drool over you to eviscerate.” 

“They’ll do that no matter what. At some point.”

“Yeah, but when they do, I’ll look better than this,” she says, motioning to her whole being. 

I frown at her.

“Gotta tighten the midsection up. Loose ten pounds,” she goes on, shoving a pile of Kerr’s dirty clothing into one of the hotel’s laundry bags. “Then, I’ll buy some designer jeans.”

“Er, okay.”

“All right. So, Comic Con fun?”

“Yes. Did you enjoy the bits you went to?”

“Yeah. I kind of like these working holidays.”

“That’s good. I foresee them often in our future,” I dryly snark at her. 

She rolls her eyes at me and shoves the laundry bag into her suitcase. “Well, when are you going to be back in London?” 

“I’ll be back in London after dropping you and Kerr off.”

“You’re dropping us off?”

“Yes. I thought…well, I didn’t change my travel plans that I made before…”

“Before I said I wanted to live in London.”

“Yeah. I did cancel those appointments.”

“Oh.”

I study her for a long time. 

“Can you make some for London?”

“What?”

“To look at flats? While your flat is nice and I like that you fixed up a bedroom for Kerr, uh, I think we’ll need a bigger flat. Remember? We talked about this. Were you not listening and thinking about sex?”

I stare at her. She is staring at her suitcase and fiddling with the zipper. 

“Yes, I remember. I’ll make some appointments and get back to you. I live too close to Tom as is. Best move away.”

Door cracks up. 

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

Mom wasn’t too thrilled Ben and I decided to move in together. Dad was devastated I was going to London. Actually, I think Dad was devastated more so about Kerr moving to London. Kerr’s pediatrician was utterly heartbroken when I took him in for his two month appointment and I told her we were moving to London. (Granted, I think she was more heart broken because she loves Benedict Cumberbatch and couldn’t believe she was treating his kid.) 

I am thrilled I’m getting out of my parent’s house. Seriously. I’m totally over being pathetic. Granted, I’m just kind of moving from one place I don’t own to another. BUT, when we actually get down to BUYING a flat, hopefully, I’ll have some money put away from B&D. 

Speaking of B&D, it’s really taking off. We’ve got professional sewers now making the purses on professional machines. Our labels all still can claim handmade, but they are no longer handmade by my mother, myself, and a team of interns. Thus, quality has increased. Also, we’re on our way to be an actual fashion label. (I think.) For a startup business, we’ve done a ton. However, instead of just designing a few bags and selling them year round, now I have to design by the seasons. Mitch is finding all sorts of contacts in the fashion industry. So, if there is actually one person on the planet that is THRILLED I’m moving to London, it’s Mitch. 

He’s setting up meetings for me left and right. I’m not sure who the hell I’m meeting with, but he says it makes total sense to have a London branch (or whatever), as there is a definite British flare to B&D. (Duh.) 

All I know is I no longer have to try to sew ten million purses, nor does my mother. I’ve no idea what Mitch has her doing these days, but whatever it is keeps her busy enough. I guess. I’ve been busy with a non-sleeping baby. 

I love London. I’ve been here before, but I was just visiting. Even when I lived here for a whole year, I still knew there was an end in sight. This time…there is no time limit. (Well, there is until we get the visa sorted. But, I don’t understand that and Ben’s got a lawyer on it.) 

I’m home.

It feels brilliant. And not just because Ben’s been around since we got here. I love this city, being in the city, living in the city, living with Ben…

Living with Ben has been a itsy-bitsy challenge. Sometimes Ben’s suffers from alexithymia. It’s like living with a teenager. He just makes various odd noises, waves his hands around, and leaves the room in a huff. Then there’s the issue with the toilet seat. Unlike Jason, Ben doesn’t ALWAYS put the seat down when he’s done in the bathroom. I think when I almost tore his hair out the other night after I FELL IN when I was half asleep will make him remember to simply PUT THE SEAT DOWN when he’s done. I know it can be done. Jason was able to do it. (Granted, he put the entire thing down, lid and all, because he thought his toothbrush was going to jump to its death.) 

Yet, vorfreude is happening to me, so I’m not changing anything.

“So, looking for a flat…”

Hmmm….flat. I ought to be looking at flats, but instead I’m surfing Twitter. Hey…why is Tom in a wet t-shirt contest?

Oh.

“Tom challenged you to dump water over your head.”

“What?” Ben asks, looking up from the laptop he’s somehow using while holding Kerr on his lap. I think it’s due to having huge hands he’s able to do both, I sure as hell can’t hold Kerr and use a MacBook. Or any computer. I can use my iPhone.

“I don’t know. Famous people are dumping buckets of ice over their heads for ALS.”

“They are?”

“Yeah. I’m not sure why. Raising money?”

“Likely. And to raise awareness of their cause.”

“Yeah. So, let’s go get a bucket of ice water and I’ll dump it on your head.” 

“What? I’m holding the baby!”

“Put him in his bouncy chair.”

“Door!”

I jump up and hurry into the kitchen, raiding the freezer for the ice. I’m not sure where I’ll find a bucket, but if all else fails, I’ll break into the janitor’s closet. They have to have one somewhere, right? It’s an apartment building. They clean the hallways with something. 

“Door!”

“Do you have a bucket?”

“What are you doing?”

“Look it up online!”

“Where?”

“Google it.”

I hunt around the kitchen till I find a bucket in with the cleaning supplies I’m sure Ben never uses. (Someone cleans his flat for him, lucky bastard. Though, I guess since I live here now, she cleans my flat too. I’ve yet to meet her because she comes at a certain time every week and I have always cleared out when she’s supposed to come. I almost didn’t this week, partly because I finally got Kerr to nap. But he woke up before she showed up, so we left.)

“Let’s do this!” I exclaim, brandishing the bucket of ice I’ve got. 

“Door!”

“Bouncy chair! Where can I dump water on your head?”

“Will you hold on a moment?” Ben asks, not moving Kerr. “I don’t just want to dump water on my head.”

He’s got this twinkle in his eye that means he’s up to something.

Oh. This will be brilliant. 

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

“I can’t believe him.”

“Well, believe it,” grinned an off camera voice.

“I just don’t understand how pouring a bucket of ice water over my head will help ALS raise money.”

“It raises awareness,” another voice chimed in.

“Fine. But why can’t I just give them money? I mean, I give a hundred dollars and no water is wasted. And they get a hundred dollars.”

“That’s no fun and you’re missing the point,” yet another voice offered.

Pamela sighed so loudly the microphone in the camcorder picked it up. Tom chuckled softly, resting his head in his hands as he watched his fiancé on the recording. She was a little blurry. He couldn’t see the details he longed to see: the freckles dotting her cheeks and nose, the flecks of gold in her eyes, the little mole on her neck…

“Okay. You ready?” asked the voice closest to the camera.

“Yes,” Pamela stated, sounding annoyed. “Why do we have to film it?”

Several people groaned.

“Are you already filming?” whispered another voice.

“Yeah. Grimalkin, you ready to roll?”

Pamela gave the camera a look of clear annoyance while the people with her chuckled. Tom could understand why. He’d detest being referred to as an old female cat. Actually, he was rather offended on her behalf.

“So, let’s start,” said another voice, off to the right.

“And go!” shouted a familiar voice that Tom placed as Ryan, their housemate. 

Pamela looked a bit grumpy, but squared her shoulders and stood up as straight as a board. 

“I was challenged by Thomas Hiddleston for this…dump a bucket of ice water over your head for ALS. Since it’s 106 degrees and I burned both ears on my stupid helmet today, I think I made off a lot better than you,” she stated clearly.

Tom chuckled. It hadn’t been all that warm when he’d had the bucket of ice water thrown at him. It was also raining, so he’d already been rather wet when the bucket of water hit him, making him only colder and wetter. 

“I still don’t understand how you burned both your ears on your helmet,” said the voice to the right.

A man came into view holding a colossal bucket. The guy was quite tall and towered over Tom’s elfin fiancé. “Here we go!”

And without further ado, the guy dumped the bucket over Pamela. Unlike many people who took up the challenge, she did not scream or make any sort of noise when the water was dumped over her head. She simply stood there looking grumpy. 

“You are no fun, Grima,” said the unknown voice off to the left.

“Shut up, Erik,” Pamela grumped. 

She was rather crotchety. 

“You need to challenge someone,” the tall guy reminded Pamela.

“You.”

“What?”

“And you,” Pamela pointed to where Erik must be standing and then right at the camera. “And you.”

Silence. All that could be heard was the noises of Enid, Oklahoma: dogs barking, the wind blowing, and lawn mowing. 

“ALL OF YOU!” Pamela shouted, indicating all around her. 

She looked gleeful.

“No way. I have an inner ear thing,” Ryan claimed.

“You fly planes. You can handle having a bucket of water dumped on your head. Or, are you a girl?” Pamela taunted, folding her wet arms across her chest. “Did you not have a pogo pool when you went through pilot training? This is nothing compared to that. It’s clean water.” 

Tom hated the fact there were three guys standing in the backyard with Pamela while she stood there in a wet t-shirt. Luckily, she’d not worn a white t-shirt, but was still dressed in the horrible brown thing she wore under her flight suit. 

“You’re a girl.”

“And I didn’t even scream,” Pamela goaded, finally looking as if she was having fun.

“CUT!” Ryan shouted and the picture cut out.

Tom picked up his phone as someone beat on the door of his trailer. 

“Coming!” Tom called, sending off a quick text to inquire on the state of Pamela’s burnt ears. Last he heard, they were blistering.

“Usually it’s not a problem to leave your helmet in the plane. However, when it’s 106, do not leave your helmet in the plane. There are clearly metal bits by your ears,” Pamela had reported when she explained why he was on speaker phone. “And I am going to Vale next weekend because it’s not 106 there so you better not be planning a spontaneous visit, as I’m willingly going cross country with student pilots who want to kill me.”

“They do not want to kill you,” Tom had assured her. “They simply do not know any better.”

“No, they want to kill me and I’m going to Vale,” she’d insisted. 

“TOM!”

“Coming!” Tom shouted, coming back to reality. He set the phone down and headed out.

* * *

“John posted the video on Facebook.”

“Who?”

“John. The tall guy who dumped the bucket of water on my head. Since I made them make one, he posted mine since I don’t have Facebook and I guess if you fail to post it to social media it doesn’t count.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I still don’t understand this whole thing.”

“Pamela, you do realize…” Tom paused, wondering how to pose the concern.

“That I’m on the internet stating I am the person you challenged? You didn’t use my name. You called me Cinnamon, which I guess we’ll have to capitalize now days. It’s clearly my name.”

“The boys all called you Grimalkin. Or Grima.”

“Oh, crap. I forgot they used my call sign.”

“It’s a horrible call sign.”

“It could be a lot worse.”

“How on earth did you end up being called an old female cat?”

“Well, John gave it to me. Mostly because they think I act like an old, cranky cat. John likes big words. Kind of like you. Erik and Ryan usually shorten it, and thus, when it came time to really assign me the call sign, meaning to paint it on a plane and order a name tag, the squadron commander approved Grima. Only John calls me Grimalkin.”

Tom sighed happily. “Well, someday your name will come out, you do realize this, correct? It’s utterly amazing it’s yet to happen.”

“I’m low key.”

“Oh? You’re Loki?”

“Yeah. And you’re high key.”

Tom shook his head. “There is no such person as Hikey.”

“Well, there should be. The opposite of low key. High key.”

“I think it’s properly known as high maintenance.”

“Bah.”

“Also, I think I’m more hokey,” Tom offered. 

Pamela snorted. “You said it, not me.”

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

“You just had to out do everyone else, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Just couldn’t dump water on your head once, could you?”

“Nope.”

“And you just had to do another shower scene, didn’t you?”

“I’ll likely do a few more before I’m seen as too old and crotchety,” I admit.

Door glowers. 

“I didn’t challenge you,” I point out. “So, you don’t need to dump water on your head.”

“Tom challenged Pamela.”

“Well, yes. He’s evil like that.”

“How do you burn your ears on a helmet?” Door inquires. 

“No clue.”

“No, seriously, how? I’ve worn that helmet. I don’t remember there being anything around the ears to burn you,” Door says, wondering away. 

It’s late. Kerr is asleep. While he’s still not too keen on the whole napping thing, he does sleep at night. Usually for at least six or seven hours straight. Granted, this means he wakes up at five and is ready to go, but hey, it’s better than not sleeping. 

“Where are you going?” I call out, keeping my voice down. Kerr sleeps in our room still, so I don’t want to wake him—though he’s difficult to wake once he’s out. 

I scramble out of the bed and find Door raiding the refrigerator. She is always hungry. She eats more now than she did whilst she was pregnant.

“I’m so tried of always being hungry,” she complains as she pulls out the milk and then heads to the cabinet for some biscuits. “If I keep this up, I’ll never loose the last ten pounds.”

“It’s likely due to breastfeeding. You do it almost every two hours. Except at night.”

“Sure,” Door says, stuffing her mouth. 

I pull a bowl of fruit out and put it next to her. Once she’s stuffed two more biscuits in her mouth, I take the package away. She doesn’t notice. She moves onto the fruit. (I saw her Mum do this often whilst we were at their home before we left, sneakily switch out the unhealthy for the healthy.) 

“Did I tell you we are looking at flats tomorrow afternoon? Here are the three we’ll look at tomorrow,” I say, sliding an iPad across the table. Door picks it up in her hand not feeding her mouth and stares. She sets it down and begins to poke the iPad. “I like the third one.”

“Me too. It’s not all that far from here. I kind of wanted two stories, though.”

“I know. The second one has an upper floor.”

“Yeah, but the third one has a great garden for Basil Bea.” 

“Well, we’ll just have to keep an open mind.” 

* * *

We are buying the third flat. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

OMG. We bought a flat.

He put my name on it. Seriously. I’m not sure how it was exactly legal, but everyone told me it was. And considering people buy property all over the world on _House Hunters International_ from the States, I guess I can co-buy a flat in London. (Not that I contributed a lot to the downpayment…mostly what I got from selling the 4Runner.) 

We own a flat.

OMG. 

And Benedict won an Emmy. He wasn’t there, but he won an Emmy.

He’s an Emmy winner. HA.

(He also won GQ Actor or something, but that’s not an EMMY.)

(He was also mildly drunk when he accepted that award, said he was drunk, and spoke like a Victorian.)

(I totally saved the footage to show Kerr someday. Like, “Look at your dad! He’s a total embarrassment! So, don’t get drunk. You’ll tell the entire world you need a loo.”)

But, OMG. 

I bought a flat with Benedict Cumberbatch.

At least, this mile stone had me looking my best and dressed for success. And lacking the barking menace known as Basil Bea Dog.   

I’m a homeowner. I’ve got a mortgage. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

It’s late by the time I get home, later than I wanted. I start up the stairs to the first floor, where I know Door and Kerr are located due to the sound of Door singing. I quietly pad up the stairs and find Basil Bea spread out in the hallway, blissfully unaware I’ve returned. I pause for a moment, staring at the dog.

“If you love a hippopotamus, and you love her a-lot-ta-mus, she will be your friend, that can be mighty handy now and then,” Door sings as I wonder if stepping over Basil will alert her to my presence. “If you want a cookie, but it’s too high on the shelf, you can climb on the back of a hippopotamus can get one for yourself, and one for her too.”

As she starts the chorus again, I step over Basil. 

Basil fails to notice. 

I’m sure it is due to the fact she’s old. Or her trip over the ocean did her in. 

Or she’s finally feeling at home here. Took her long enough. 

I enter the reception room to find Door in the glider, Kerr merrily sucking on his hands while they both are staring at the TV, which you can’t hear over Door’s singing. I stand and watch her launch into the next verse of the song, smiling softly at the sight. 

My dreams have come true. The simplicity of coming home to this…it is simply beyond words. 

“If you love a hippopotamus, and you love her a-lot-at-mus, she will be your friend, that can be mighty handy now and then,” Door finishes. 

The TV quietly makes noise, but another song starts from Door’s iPhone, which is in her free hand and being held near her ear. Before she can start singing again, Kerr notices me. Being almost five months old now, he’s beginning to respond to people he knows— mostly myself and Door. He really responds to Door, but that is likely due to the fact he spends all his time with her. 

But right now, he is smiling a big, toothless grin at me and babbling something at me. 

Door looks over to where I’m standing and rolls her eyes.

“Basil, you have failed at life again. You do not pass go, you will not collect any treats,” Basil perks up at that word, “and you will now go to jail.”

“Jail?”

“Eh. Puppy jail, also known as her crate.”

“She loves her crate.”

“Yeah, she’s weird. She loves being locked up. Crazy dog. Here.”

Door thrusts Kerr out in front of her. Kerr laughs, babbles, then shoves his fists into his mouth. There is drool everywhere, but I don’t particularly care as I take my son and hold him close. I kiss his soft hair, smoothing down the curls that have only gotten more out of control the longer he’s alive. 

“The bottle’s in the fridge. I’ll start the water, you put him in the jammies,” Door says, getting up and heading off to the larger than life kitchen. 

(We really lucked out on the kitchen/dining. It’s absolutely huge. Granted, neither Door and I cook regularly (I’m often gone working, Door can’t cook), but someday, we can host dinners and have room for everyone.)

“I got home just in time,” I say to Kerr, who makes an odd series of noises that I now recognize as I Am Tired noises.

I head down the hallway towards the bedrooms. Kerr’s been regulated to the room next to ours. It’s the smaller of the three bedrooms, but Door announced she didn’t fancy potty training in the closet sized loo the other bedroom has connected. 

“All right, bedtime for Bonzo,” I sing in the silliest voice I can manage.  

It gets me a smile and a tired laugh. 

We go through our bedtime routine (me singing “Over the Rainbow” softly while changing nappy, then putting jim-jams on). We just finish when Door appears with the warmed bottle. (Kerr decided about two weeks ago he was through with nursing and would scream bloody murder whenever Door tried to nurse him. I thought she’d have a mental breakdown, but she simply rolled her eyes, put Kerr on the floor on his play mat, pumped, fed him a bottle, and was through with nursing.)

I take the bottle from her, sit down in the glider in the nursery, and adjust Kerr in my arms so he can eat. 

“Bib.”

I look up to find Door giving me the evil eye because I forgot the bib. I move the bottle out of the way and Door fastens the bib around Kerr’s neck. She turns and leaves as I offer the bottle to Kerr and he greedily begins to suck the contents down.

* * *

“So, how’d today go?” I ask after I’ve put Kerr down. 

Door is in the kitchen at the huge dining table my parents got us as a house warming present. It’s a large glass topped modern looking thing, which goes with the white and grey granite kitchen, but is way too edgy for my tastes. Door, I’ve discovered, likes the whole clean, white, Scandinavian look. The flat was painted white, has light colored wood floors, and light carpets. Mum commented this isn’t really kid friendly, but we’ve not changed a thing. (Even if I’d love to darken the floors, throw down some of my old rugs, and paint something red.) 

The flat’s location was what sold it to me, not how it looked. It’s in a great, kid friendly neighborhood. It’s near good primary schools. There is quite a few nice parks within a short walk and all other things are quick Tube rides away. And, it’s not all that far from where I was before. Granted, Tom can no longer walk over and fall asleep on my couch, but he can easily get here if he wants. 

Not that I foresee that happening. He lives in Enid, Oklahoma most of the time. 

“Fine. Now that he can roll over, it’s all he does,” Door comments not looking up from the various purse sketches that are littering the kitchen table. 

We don’t eat at our kitchen table. Door uses it as her design studio. Someday, we’ll eat at it. Like when we finally find a drafting desk to put in the spare room. 

“How’s your latest project?”

“Fine. I can’t say much.”

Door snorts. “Well, you should leave the kitchen. These designs are top secret.”

“I have at least twelve percent of a say in the designs.”

Door lets out a bark of a laugh. “Come here.”

I go over, sinking down into the chair next to her. She wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me closer till our lips meet. 

I will never tire of kissing this woman. 

Nor will I ever tire of her crawling into my lap and undressing me. Granted, I wish she’d also undress at the same time, but I guess I can’t have everything.  


End file.
